e said, smiling, "that she had a mouth in a million."

* * * * *

By half-past ten the next morning we were again upon the road.

The almanack swore it was March, but here was a summer's day. Not a
cloud was floating in the great blue sky: down to the tenderest breeze,
the winds were sleeping: the sun was in all his glory. For earth
herself, the stains of winter were being done away. Out of the
country's coat the greys and browns, lately so prominent, were fading
notably. As thick as fast, the green was coming in. As we rounded a
bend and sailed down a long sweet hill towards the frontier, the road
was all dappled with the shadows of youngster leaves.

Our way seemed popular. Car after car swept by, waggons and lorries
went rumbling about their business, now and again two of the Guardia
Civil--well-horsed, conspicuously armed and point-device in their
accoutrements--sat stiff, silent, and vigilant in the mouth of an odd
by-road.

Come to the skirts of Irun, we switched to the left, and five minutes
later we were at Fuenterrabia.

A city with a main street some four yards wide, keeping a king's
palace, if hatchments be evidence, remembering more dukes than
shopkeepers, its house-walls upholding a haphazard host of balconies
and overhung with monstrous eaves--a pocket stronghold, set on the lip
of Spain, staring at sea and land, each sunlit rood of which is fat
with History--a lovely star upon the breast of Fame, chosen by English
poets to enrich their songs, Fuenterrabia is among the crown jewels of
Europe.

We thrust up the Calle Mayor and into the Plaza de Armas. There we put
the cars in the shade and alighted eagerly to view the town at close
quarters.

"Look at that little boy," cried Jill, "eating an apple. Where's the
camera? Get him to stand in the sun, Boy, against that old wall."

"That's right," said Berry. "And there's a dog scratching himself.
Ask him to devil his tenants beside the Post Office. If we get a good
picture, we can call it _Local Affection, or The Old, Old Story_ and
send it to _The Field_."

To humour my cousin's whim, I approached a dirty-looking child....

Despite my assurances of good-will, however, the urchin retired as I
advanced, all the time consuming his apple with a nervous energy, which
suggested at once a conviction that I had my eye upon his fruit and a
determination to confound my strategy. The apple was dwindling fast,
and, redoub